


Flinch

by Dodoa



Series: Aftermath [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Communication, Confessions, Everyone Needs A Hug, Fix-It of Sorts, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I guess there's actually some comfort in this one, Post-Episode: s04e02 The Lying Detective, Season/Series 04, We're actiually inching into fix-it territory now, because OF COURSE THERE IS, difficult conversations, they actually talk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:07:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27576284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dodoa/pseuds/Dodoa
Summary: The day after The Hug things feel more settled between Sherlock and John, but an involuntary reaction to a friendly touch threatens to upset the careful balance they thought they'd found.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Series: Aftermath [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/705987
Comments: 13
Kudos: 44





	1. Lost in the Beating of the Storm

**Author's Note:**

> This one is a bit different than the other works in this series, because I had the idea for this situation and started writing without choosing a song to match it first. So instead there's a quote from a song for each chapter. The three songs are all from the album "A Thousand Suns" by Linkin Park and I'm using each for two chapters, the first of which is from Sherlock's POV and the second from John's. Because apparently I can't cope without making up ridiculous rules for myself.  
> I've already finished writing, so I'll post a chapter every day or so.

_We held our breath when the clouds began to form_   
_But you were lost in the beating of the storm_   
_And in the end we were made to be apart_   
_Like separate chambers of the human heart_

_-Burning in the skies, Linkin Park_

It’s a hand on his shoulder that does it, a gesture of comfort between friends. Because they are still friends, aren’t they? They have to be, John wouldn’t take a not-friend out for cake on his birthday, would he? A friendly pat on the shoulder, delivered together with a cup of tea. Nothing more, nothing sinister, certainly nothing violent. John wasn’t even angry. To the contrary, he’d arrived in a much better mood today than Sherlock had seen from him since Mary died. Hence the friendly pat on the shoulder.

That made Sherlock flinch.

Sherlock froze, hoping that John didn’t notice, didn’t realise, didn’t take it as a sign of being unwelcome.

John froze and Sherlock knew that he was doing exactly that.

Cursing his transport for reacting first and thinking later (he knew he would have welcomed the friendly touch if he’d allowed it to continue past the first awareness of it) Sherlock cast about for something to say to take the gravity out of the situation, make light of it, laugh it off, make John stay, but no words would come, swallowed up in a memory of pain and regret and the moment stretched beyond the bounds of plausible deniability.

John’s face fell.

“Ah.” There was an ocean of defeat in the single syllable that broke the silence. “I’ll just call Molly,” John continued, already retreating, already fading away, “see if she can make it earlier.” So much faster than even Sherlock had feared in the moment his transport had betrayed him.

And Sherlock couldn’t, wouldn’t let this be the final nail in the coffin that held their friendship, couldn’t, wouldn’t allow his traitorous body to destroy this after everything he’d done to get it back. And finally, words came, sparingly, haltingly and born from desperation, but they would hopefully stop John in his tracks long enough for Sherlock to find better ones.

“No.” John’s hand paused in its quest towards his phone.

“Stay.” John turned back around to face the wreckage his single innocent touch had caused. Sherlock thought he detected a sliver of hope between the defeat and grief on his face, but it might have just been surprise.

“Please.” John reluctantly walked back to his armchair and sat down on the very edge of it, his whole body radiating discomfort.

“Sherlock…” almost more sigh than name, but still a beginning of some kind. “You can’t… I’m obviously making you uncomfortable.” A pause. Sherlock wanted to speak up, to protest but didn’t know how, in the face of the evidence. “That’s… just not okay. You shouldn’t make yourself endure that for my sake.” And there it was, the flaw in the argument Sherlock could dig into.

“I’m not _enduring_ anything, and certainly not for your sake!” Wanting John to stay was entirely selfish.


	2. Losing what I don't deserve

_The blame is mine alone_  
_For bridges I have burned_  
_So don't apologize_  
_I'm losing what I don't deserve_

_-Burning in the skies, Linkin Park_

“I saw your face just now, you looked… terrified.” He still did. Sherlock was doing a good job of hiding it, but beneath the blank mask that had come down seconds after he’d flinched away, John could still see the fear in his eyes. “So don’t… Don’t tell me you want me here, when I know it’s not true.” Had that fear been there all along? John hadn’t noticed it yesterday, or when he’d arrived today, but then, he hadn’t been looking for it, maybe deliberately. Well, that would stop now.

“I get it, what I did was unacceptable, and I don’t expect you to forgive me.” _Should have told him that yesterday, Watson,_ he scolded himself. _Should have given him an opening to reject you. But you were afraid he would do just that. So, you didn’t. Coward._

“I don’t even know why you’d…” _Oh, but you do. Sherlock is still trying to save you, because that’s what Mary told him to do and he’s a far better man than you are._ Sherlock had gambled everything for the slim chance of saving John just because Mary had asked him to, while it had taken a hefty dose of emotional blackmail from Mrs Hudson for John to even half-heartedly agree to take a look at Sherlock. John knew he didn’t deserve any of this sacrifice.

“If you’re still trying to, I don’t know, make up for Mary… Don’t. It wasn’t your fault and it certainly isn’t your job to fix it, fix me.” Jesus, John should never have unloaded all of that on Sherlock. Not now, maybe not ever. It had felt good yesterday, right, like they were making progress, but that was assuming that Sherlock even wanted this, wanted him, here, in his life. If he didn’t, and right now John couldn’t see how he would, it had been a fine example of emotional manipulation, breaking down in front of Sherlock, putting him on the spot like that. And what that hug must have cost him if Sherlock was this terrified of him, John couldn’t even imagine. Well, it would stop now. Since Sherlock seemed determined to make him stay regardless of how much John’s presence would distress him, he would stay as long as it took him to make sure he wasn’t misinterpreting this. Then he would make sure Sherlock was going to be looked after for the foreseeable future and leave. It would put more pressure on Molly, Greg and Mrs Hudson to cover all the shifts themselves, but if his presence was hurting Sherlock more than helping him, there was nothing to be done about that.

“Anyway, I’ve got my head on straight again. I’ll manage.” A lie, most likely, but John couldn’t allow Sherlock to make this decision worrying about him.


	3. This is not what I had planned

_Waiting for the end to come_   
_Wishing I had strength to stand_   
_This is not what I had planned_   
_It's out of my control_   
_Flying at the speed of light_   
_Thoughts were spinning in my head_   
_So many things were left unsaid_   
_It's hard to let you go_

_-Waiting for the end, Linkin Park_

Sherlock watched as John seemed to shrink in his chair, while he was talking himself out of Sherlock’s life, mind racing for a way to stop this, examining and discarding excuses for why he’d reacted the way he had.

_It wasn’t you, my skin is just over-sensitised from the withdrawal still and everything touching me hurts right now._ It wasn’t even a complete lie, though by now it was closer to discomfort than pain, but it was too late for that, maybe if he’d said it right away, John would have bought it.

_You just startled me._ Same problem, also John had approached him from the front, Sherlock had seen him coming.

If it was too late for simple excuses, how could he convince John that he wanted him here, despite his treacherous transport’s reactions? The problem was that John was partially right. Sherlock had, for a split second, expected the touch to be violent, despite all evidence to the contrary and braced for the impact that had never come. But that didn’t mean he wanted John gone. It didn’t even mean that he didn’t want John to touch him. Yesterday had proved that. When John had broken down in front of him, Sherlock had been apprehensive at first. If he was honest with himself, he’d found it difficult to shake the worry that John would lash out again if he tried to comfort him, but Sherlock hadn’t been able to just leave him standing there, crying, alone, and he’d never known the right words for these situations, so he’d forced himself to push away his (irrational, he told himself) fear and extended what comfort he could. And once he’d been sure John wasn’t going to push him away, once John had relaxed against him, it had been good, a comfort to them both. He just had to get through the first second and it was fine, good even, and if he’d had better control over his body, it would have been this time, too. But if he said any of that out loud, John would surely misinterpret it, convinced as he was that he wasn’t really welcome. Better stick to the part Sherlock didn’t feel conflicted about at all. But he’d already asked John to stay, and John was still leaving, and Sherlock didn’t know how else he could say it so John would believe him, and maybe it didn’t matter so much what he said, as long as he said something, because he’d let the silence stretch on for too long, trying to figure out what to say, and John was getting up again, probably taking his silence as agreement, and Sherlock needed to stop him.

“It’s not fair!” was what finally broke out. It made John pause, at least, but Sherlock knew it wouldn’t amount to anything unless he followed it up with something else and all he had was honesty and a good dose of helpless anger.

“If this is _your_ fault, as you say, if _you_ fucked up, then why am _I_ being punished for it?!” John sunk back to perch on the armrest on his chair as Sherlock abandoned his own to tower over John. If he was going to be honest and make himself vulnerable that way, he at least wanted, needed to be the physically more intimidating of the two. From the way he held himself, hands carefully folded in his lap, John seemed to understand that at least, even if he was confused about what Sherlock was trying to say.

“What do you mean?” Apparently, he would have to spell it out.

“I’m the one who’s going to be left behind, am I not? Despite asking you to stay? And why would you leave because of something _you_ did, if _I_ don’t tell you to? That’s not how it works. People leave because of what the other person did, not because of their own faults, so unless you are lying about why you are leaving, your being noble, or whatever it is you’re trying to do, isn’t helping anyone.”

That had come out a bit harsher than Sherlock had intended, so to compensate, he threw himself back into his armchair as dramatically as he could with his cracked ribs, trying to give John some space without giving up his dominance of the conversation. His wince on impact with the chair took most of the flair out of the movement though and left John looking quietly devastated again. It was starting to annoy Sherlock.

“Alright, you’ve made your point, but Sherlock…” John trailed off, obviously not happy with this end to their conversation, but unsure how to continue. If Sherlock let it be, they’d probably find themselves in this spot over and over again until they managed to resolve things or John left for good. Better to finish this now while John still thought he owed Sherlock.

“But. What?” he hissed. But you’re still leaving? But you’ll only stay until I don’t need babysitting anymore?

“You deserve better.” It sounded like goodbye. Wasn’t that one of those clichés? It’s not you, it’s me?

“So what?” Sherlock countered, his caustic tone masking the raw vulnerability of his argument. “People rarely get what they deserve, John. I’m more concerned with what I can reasonably expect to get. And considering my track record with relationships, that’s you or no one.”

“Sherlock, you do have other friends.” Was John being deliberately this obtuse? Did he truly not realise that he was a category of his own? And how was Sherlock supposed to explain that without it coming across the wrong way?

“That’s not – They’re not – They’re all… people.” Great. Really eloquent. At least John seemed more amused than offended.

“And I’m not? What am I then if I’m not a person?” Mildly teasing, but not malicious. Sherlock knew he was supposed to answer that tone of voice with a joke, or failing that, an insult, but that would deposit them right back at square one, with John unsure of his standing and Sherlock grasping at straws.

So, Sherlock tried honesty instead.

“You’re –”

The only one I always want around even when I can’t stand being around people. Who I fear losing the most. The family I chose. Everything.

“– You.”

And failed miserably at it.


	4. I thought it felt right but that right was wrong

_What was left when that fire was gone?_   
_I thought it felt right but that right was wrong_   
_All caught up in the eye of the storm_   
_And trying to figure out what it's like moving on_

_-Waiting for the end, Linkin Park_

The look in Sherlock’s eyes, like a deer caught in the headlights, frozen in terror at what he’d stopped himself from saying, before forcing out one word, a single syllable, yet so laden with meaning, John couldn’t possibly hope to untangle, yet somehow felt he understood, it made John want to kick himself for once more forcing Sherlock out of his comfort zone in the hope of getting his ego stroked. Not that that’s how he’d justified his glib response to himself, no he’d told himself he was giving Sherlock an out, a way not to have to explain himself. If things between them had been normal, well their brand of normal anyway, Sherlock would have brushed him off with a quip that was more insult than compliment at first glance and John would have pretended to be a bit offended while secretly being pleased and just like that they would have left the minefield their conversation had turned into. But things weren’t normal, and he would do well not to forget that again even if Sherlock’s brand of aggressive vulnerability had gone a long way towards reassuring him that he was, after all, still wanted.

Whether he could really be good for Sherlock was another matter entirely, but for now it was clear that leaving would be worse. So, John decided to do his best to salvage the evening, even if he didn’t know how to salvage their friendship, or if that was even something he should attempt. Feeling bound to the person who hurt you, because you didn’t believe you had other options, like Sherlock seemed to, certainly wasn’t the basis for a healthy relationship. If he was going to make this work, something would have to change. But how could he make that happen if Sherlock would barely acknowledge that there was a problem in the first place? Meanwhile, Sherlock still had this deer in the headlights look, obviously still trying to find the right words, possibly trying to determine which of them would make John stay and clearly coming up empty. So that question would have to wait in favour of getting them back on even ground.

“It’s alright, I think I know what you mean. So, what were you reading?” Not very smooth, but it did the trick. For the next twenty minutes Sherlock gave him a crash course in blood splatter analysis and expounded upon his plans to further investigate other-kinds-of-splatter analysis as a tool to help solve less bloody crimes. John reminded him that Mrs Hudson would have a fit if he did the experiments for that in the kitchen and Sherlock countered by suggesting that John could always volunteer his own if he wanted to spare Mrs Hudson. It was almost like old times. But John couldn’t put Sherlock’s flinch from earlier out of his mind.


	5. Growing desperate from the fight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to post this last night, but during my last edit which was supposed to be just a quick check to prevent gross misuse of the English language, I ended up rewriting some small sections that I wasn't totally happy with and by the time I was done I was too tired to be trusted with the whole not butchering the English language thing, so I decided to go over it with a fresh eye today instead.   
> If you do notice any crimes against grammar and vocabulary commited though, please tell me, I'm not a native speaker and I haven't had anyone more qualified than me check my writing in a long time.

_When you've suffered enough_   
_And your spirit is breaking_   
_You're growing desperate from the fight_

_-The Messenger, Linkin Park_

After the rocky start the evening had improved considerably, Sherlock thought. Somehow John had understood his pathetic declaration and taken pity on him. It wasn’t perfect by any means. Every now and then Sherlock would move carelessly, or John would startle a laugh from him, jarring his ribs and the resulting wince would bring back the same devastated look on John’s face. The first few times John clearly wanted to say something, but Sherlock, scared that John would try to talk himself out of Sherlock’s life again and too exhausted to keep going through the same argument, always rushed to talk over him, start on the next topic, distract him before he could get his words together. And it worked. Until it didn’t.

Maybe John had caught on to Sherlocks efforts at derailing him, or maybe he just couldn’t hold it in any longer, because when he did speak it had been over half an hour since Sherlock’s last careless movement and Sherlock was almost convinced they’d make it through the remaining hour before Molly arrived and John would collect Rosie from Mrs Hudson and go home, without further incident.

“Sherlock, can we talk about this?”

No, Sherlock didn’t want to talk about _this_ , whatever _this_ was supposed to be, apart from John talking himself into leaving again. Some of his apprehension must have shown on his face, because John added: “I promise I’m not leaving. At least not unless we _both_ decide that’s what’s best.”

“But you think so. You think I would be better off without you. And you’re trying to convince me.”

If that was the case, Sherlock had already lost. He might not lose John today, because John still considered him fragile, that’s why he’d promised to stay. But sooner rather than later John would believe him when he told him he was fine and then he would decide, for _both_ of them, that Sherlock was better off alone.

“No, that’s not… I’m not trying to convince you of anything.” A humourless snort. “I’d have to bloody well know myself for that, wouldn’t I? But I have no idea. I don’t know what to do, Sherlock. I just… I don’t want to hurt you anymore than I already have, and I don’t seem to know how to do that anymore.”

There was desperation in John’s voice and fear and so much sorrow, he sounded like he was truly at the end of his rope. Maybe this wasn’t the end after all. Sherlock would just have to tread carefully.

“I don’t imagine me telling you to stay is helping at all.”

“It does, a bit, but…” John couldn’t suppress a bit of a smile, “you’re emotionally compromised.”

Sherlock snorted, winced, damn those ribs, tried to cover it up: “Me? Perish the thought!”

Sherlock hadn’t known John could look amused and devastated at the same time. After all this time he was still discovering new things. And maybe he would be allowed to continue doing so.

But John turned serious again quickly.

“You are kind of making my point for me. I did that. I’m the reason you can’t laugh without pain. That’s not what friends do. So why would you forgive me, just like that?”

Sherlock could see where John was going with this. He wanted to be obstinate, pretend he didn’t know what John was getting at, but he could see that John wouldn’t stop until he got to his point, so he conceded. He refused to do so gracefully though.

“Sentiment,” he hissed, “I know shocking! The sociopath cares!” The venom in his voice barely caused John to raise an eyebrow though, so Sherlock continued more measured. “There’d hardly be a point in this otherwise, though.”

“Alright, I know.” John’s gaze had softened considerably. “You don’t want me to leave and I don’t want to leave...”

“Then what’s keeping you?” Sherlock groused. He knew, of course he knew, but he couldn’t help himself.

“Just answer me honestly, what would I have to do to you, what would be bad enough for you to send me away?”

Sherlock knew the correct answer to this, he knew what John wanted to hear. John wanted him to draw a line in the sand, somewhere reasonable, preferably somewhere that didn’t actually include what had happened in the morgue. But it was more complicated than that, there were more variables in this equation than just John’s actions, circumstances mattered, there was no single line to be drawn, no one dimensional answer to give when the truth was a multi-dimensional solution-space.

Higher mathematics wasn’t getting him anywhere though. Sherlock knew what John wanted to hear and he thought about just giving him that answer, saying _never again_ and just going back on his word later if needed, not that he expected he would, but for all his genius he couldn’t actually predict the future. John had asked for honesty though and despite himself, Sherlock didn’t want John’s decision to stay to be based on a lie. So, he answered honestly, “I don’t know,” and watched as John closed his eyes in defeat. He probably should have lied. But it was too late for that now, so he added, “Mycroft would probably interfere before that though.” If anything, that made John look even more lost.

“That’s not particularly reassuring. Sherlock, do you see my problem here?”

He did, he’d known what John was getting at from the very beginning and he even agreed on principle, except… Except it was _John_.

“I do,” he whispered.

“Good… that’s good, so…” John looked relieved and unbearably sad at the same time and Sherlock realised that he was waiting for him to tell him to leave, as if all it needed to change Sherlock’s mind was to make him admit there was a problem. Better disabuse him of that notion immediately. Problems were there to be solved, after all.

“But I still don’t want you to leave.”

“And I don’t want to leave.” The sadness on Johns face had lifted a bit, but so had the relief. If leaving wasn’t the solution, they were back to having a problem.

So, Sherlock set out to solve it.

“Then don’t. Seems ridiculous, doesn’t it, you leaving to make us both miserable on the off chance that you might make me miserable in the future.” They could work on the rest later, as long as John admitted that leaving wasn’t going to solve anything for anyone.

“Well, when you put it like that,” John agreed, but he still didn’t seem quite convinced and Sherlock couldn’t stop himself from seeking confirmation. He was starting to realise just how close he’d come to losing John for good today and what would he have done then? It could still happen now, or whenever John brought this up again. Sherlock wanted to clutch at him and never let him go but he limited himself to asking: “So you’ll stay?”

“Of course, I’ll… I told you I wouldn’t leave, unless… But…” And Sherlock instantly wished he hadn’t asked, had left sleeping dragons lie, because John was looking so damned scared now and he didn’t know how to fix it. He only knew he wanted his friend back.

And he suspected that as much as he wanted to bury it and move on, John needed to talk before they could get there and Sherlock would have to listen and honestly consider John’s point, even if everything in him screamed to dismiss any argument that might take John away from him.


	6. Remember you're loved

_Remember you're loved_   
_And you always will be_   
_This melody will bring you right_   
_Back home_

_-The Messenger, Linkin Park_

“But?” the question was so tentative, so full of compassion, so not like Sherlock, it caught John off guard, just like this whole conversation had. This was not a question from someone who was scheming to get him to stay, not really considering the problem. This was a question from someone who had put all pretence aside and really only wanted to help make sure that this decision they’d made was the right one. This was a question asking for honesty. So, John answered. Honestly. Or tried to.

“I’m worried,” he forced out, but then stopped himself. He was definitely more than just worried, and he was trying for honesty here. He tried again: “No, strike that, I’m fucking terrified that I’ll…” The words died in his throat again. Why did this have to be so difficult? He wished Mary was still in his head coaching him through this, if only so it would be her voice instead of his own telling him to _suck it up and say it you miserable bastard, you’ve thought it often enough._

Did he really have to say it? He didn’t want to. God how much he didn’t want to. And Sherlock had said he understood and told him to stay anyway. Did he really need to say it out loud? John didn’t know if he could, if he could force his lips to form those words. This always happened when he tried to talk about those monumentally important things. In his mind he was screaming the words, sentences fully formed, but the connection to his mouth was lost and nothing would come out.

But he knew he had to do it anyway, this time. He couldn’t base the rebuilding of their friendship on a conversation held in allusions and euphemisms. It felt like lying. Still, John half hoped that Sherlock would interrupt his silent fight, but he seemed to sense that John needed to get this out and kept silent.

So finally, in fits and starts, John forced himself to talk.

“I already told you, I never want to hurt you again. But I’m not… good right now.” John had started his speech looking at Sherlock, willing him to listen and understand, but the closer he got to the admission that had been sitting on the tip of his tongue since Sherlock flinched away from him, the harder it got. “I’m angry all the time, at myself most of all, but I lash out. Too much. And I… I scare myself sometimes. Even before… before Mary…” he still couldn’t say it, “and everything. This isn’t a new thing. It’s worse now, but… It’s always been there, in me, just waiting to break out. I’m starting to think that I’m just rotten to the core.” John finally subsided, wanting to fold in on himself and unable to look up from his clasped hands to face his judgement.

Which didn’t come.

“You’re not.” John’s head shot up at Sherlock’s words, but he still found himself unable to meet his eyes. John knew he didn’t deserve his absolution.

“You can’t know that.” John replied bitterly, looking away again, but Sherlock refused to give in.

“I can. I do.” Sherlock’s steady voice drew John’s eyes back up to meet his equally steady gaze. “John, you know I pride myself on my observational skills. You once told me that you knew for sure I wasn’t a fraud, because, and I quote, nobody could fake being such an annoying dick all the time.”

John buried his head in his hands again, cringing at his own harsh words. Old as they were, they only served to show that he’d always been this way. Incapable even of being reassuring without throwing insults at the same time.

“Oh, you meant that in a nice way, I’m sure.” Sherlock attempted to joke, before continuing. “The point I’m trying to make is that you can’t live with someone that closely without picking up on their worst qualities. I know you extremely well, John, do you really think you could fool _me_ into thinking you’re something you’re not?” Sherlock seemed so sure of his conclusion, and John wanted nothing more than to take it and bask in the warmth of the acceptance he didn’t deserve, but he couldn’t.

“And yet, you flinched away from my touch. Maybe your subconscious knows something you’re not willing to admit to yourself,” John countered bitterly, but Sherlock never wavered, and it only took him a moment to come up with an answer.

“You don’t like fireworks. They put you on edge. Does your subconscious know something about fireworks that mine isn’t aware of?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow and John almost burst out laughing. Would have if things were normal.

“Fine, my subconscious is an idiot,” John quipped back. He wondered if he should leave it at that. He was realising that for better or worse, nothing he could say would convince Sherlock to send him away. But part of him couldn’t accept that. Couldn’t accept that he was still allowed to have this after everything he’d done. So he continued to argue: “But that’s not the same. It’s not the firework’s fault that they remind me of… less friendly explosions. And even if it was in any way comparable, I’m not… I don’t know, trying for a career in firework-testing or something.” Sherlock did snort at that. And then a gleam entered his eyes that John knew to interpret as you-just-made-a-mistake-and-I-am-going-to-win-this-in-three-moves-or-less.

“But you agreed to live with me, occasional explosions in the kitchen be damned.” And if this had been one of their usual verbal sparring matches that were more for the fun of it than actual substance Sherlock absolutely would have won with that. But in this case…

“That’s not even remotely the same,” John sighed. “You shouldn’t have to put yourself through hell just so I can have a hug when I need one.” John couldn’t help the bitterness in his voice. That hug yesterday had meant everything to him and even if against all reason Sherlock still wanted him here John couldn’t see how he could have wanted that hug.

“Oh, for god’s sake!” Sherlock exclaimed in frustration before ordering: “Come here.” His voice brooked no argument, so John reluctantly left his chair. He knew he’d pushed too far again and instead of acknowledging his hurt Sherlock was going to try and prove his devotion again, no matter what it cost him.

“Sherlock–”

“No.” Sherlock interrupted Johns attempt before stepping up close to him and wrapping him in a hug.

“Sherlock, I just told you–” John tried to gently push Sherlock away, but he only held on tighter, hissing, “And I’m telling you you’re wrong,” into John’s ear.

This hug was nothing like the one they’d shared the previous day. Yesterday, Sherlock had been gentle, holding John firmly but softly, intent on comfort. For all that the position was almost the same, this was where the similarity ended. This was almost aggressive in its intensity. John was sure Sherlock’s ribs had to hurt from the force of it, but struggling would only make that worse so he kept himself still while Sherlock continued his angry monologue.

“This does not hurt me. It’s not unpleasant or whatever else you imagine. You think I only hugged you because _you_ needed it. You think I was ignoring my own discomfort for your sake. You. Are. Wrong.” Sherlock finished his frustrated rant breathing heavily and John wanted to protest, but didn’t know what to say in the face of this utter conviction. And while John was still searching for words, Sherlock’s breathing calmed down and he shifted the death grip he had on John to something more resembling the hug they’d shared the day before. When Sherlock continued talking, he sounded much more subdued and vulnerable, like the bear-hug had been his last stand and he was too exhausted to keep fighting the same battle of wills.

“It was nice. I’m not going to lie to you, I was, briefly, worried you’d… react badly. But you didn’t and… it was nice.”

Oh Sherlock. John remembered with sudden clarity how Sherlock had allowed Culverton-Smith to hug him, knowing full well that the man was a serial killer. Ostensibly it had been to nick his phone, but in his head John once again heard Sherlock say, _I needed a hug_.

And Sherlock still hadn’t gotten his hug, not really. John had cried into his chest, but he hadn’t hugged back. He probably should have. Just another failure to add to the list, but this one he could remedy.

Slowly, oh so slowly, feeling for any sign of tension, John lifted his arms to encircle Sherlock in return. No tension came and instead, John was rewarded by Sherlock relaxing into him even more than he had already been.

Only then did John address the other part of what Sherlock had just said.

“You shouldn’t have to worry, though.” John wanted to continue, use this opportunity to talk about boundaries for himself, but Sherlock either hadn’t realised where he was trying to steer their conversation or was simply ignoring him.

“I didn’t, this time.”

“Good, that’s good,” John tightened his grip for a second before carefully stepping out of Sherlock’s arms, hoping Sherlock wouldn’t interpret it as a rejection, but he needed to look Sherlock in the eyes when he said this. Looking up he steeled himself with a fortifying breath before whispering: “But, Sherlock, what if your worry is… warranted, sometimes.”

John didn’t know what he had expected from Sherlocks reaction, but it wasn’t the compassion he received.

“John, the last few years… You’ve been through hell. Repeatedly.”

And god he knew he didn’t deserve that compassion. He didn’t understand why everyone was so quick to excuse his actions, starting with his new therapist and ending with Sherlock no one seemed willing to hold him accountable for anything right now and he hated every second of it even as he exploited it and hated himself every time he did.

“That’s no excuse.”

“Maybe not,” Sherlock conceded, “but it does provide you with a rather obvious course of action to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

It took John a moment to follow the train of thought, but when he got there, he had to supress a giggle at the roundabout way Sherlock had decided on to suggest this.

“You could have just told me to call my therapist.”

John had been reluctant to return, afraid that she would continue her litany of _everything is okay, everything is understandable_ if he returned and told her of everything that had happened. But Sherlock was right. He needed to fix his head before he made things even worse. If she kept excusing him, he could always find someone else or return to Ella. At least she’d never let him get away with his bullshit.

“I did interrupt your last session.”

“Yes you did,” John chuckled at the memory, because it had been funny in hindsight. He’d just been too messed up to see it. “Oh god I’m probably going to have to find a new one anyway after that first impression.”

Sherlock smiled back at him briefly, before turning thoughtful again, but the amusement never left his eyes as he reassured John: “Judging by the distinctive stains she failed to hide beneath that vase, she’s seen much worse. And you can tell her I promised not to make an appearance this time if you think it will help.”

Decision made, John felt a bit more settled than he had all night. He still had reservations about whether he was doing the right thing, staying, but he’d decided to trust Sherlock one more time and somehow, after everything, that still made him feel better, just like it always had.

“I’ll call first thing tomorrow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it for now.   
> The next thing I'll write for this will probably be unbearably cute, because we haven't seen much Rosie in this series yet and I plan to remedy that. (At some point. I've been working on this one since Feburary, so that should tell you everything you need to know about my current writing speed.)


End file.
